To Reuben was left nothing but shame and sorrow of heart and deceit to hide his sin; unlike him, to me was given to see, beyond the desert and the dwindling line of camels, the groves and palaces of the land of wisdom, whither my sad soul was bound, lonely and dismayed.  My heart went out to the day of reconciliation, when I should be forgiven with tears of joy for my own faltering treachery, when my soul should be even grateful for my weakness, because from that very faithlessness, and from no other, should the new life be born.

And thus with a peaceful hope that lay beyond shame and sorrow alike, as the shining plain lies out beyond the broken crags of the weary mountain, I gave myself utterly into the Hands of the Father of All.  He was close beside me that day, upholding, comforting, enriching me.  Not hidden in clouds from which the wrathful trumpet pealed, but walking with a tender joy, in a fragrance of love, in the garden, at the cool of the day.

August 18, 1891.

Mr. ——­ is dead.  He died yesterday, holding my hand.  The end was quite sudden, though not unexpected.  He had been much weaker of late, and he knew he could only live a short time.  I have been much with him these last few days.  He could not talk much, but there was a peaceful glory on his face which made me think of the Pilgrims in the Pilgrim’s Progress whose call was so joyful.  I never suspected how little desire he had to live; but when he knew that his days were numbered, he allowed something of his delight to escape him, as a prisoner might who has borne his imprisonment bravely and sees his release draw nigh.  He suffered a good deal, but each pang was to him only like the smiting off of chains.  “I have had a very happy life,” he said to me once with a smile.  “Looking back, it seems as though my later happiness had soaked backwards through the whole fabric, so that my joy in age has linked itself as by a golden bridge to the old childish raptures.”  Then he looked curiously at me, with a half-smile, and added, “But happy as I have been, I find it in my heart to envy you.  You hardly know how much you are to be envied.  You have no more partings to fear; your beautiful past is all folded up, to be creased and tarnished no more.  You have had the love of wife and child—­the one thing that I have missed.  You have had fame too; and you have drunk far deeper of the cup of suffering than I. I look upon you,” he said laughingly, “as an old home-keeping captain, who has never done anything but garrison duty, might look upon a young general who has carried through a great campaign and is covered with signs of honour.”